


Purplest

by KittyViolet



Category: New Mutants (Comics), X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: F/F, Magic, Panties, Songfic, Synesthesia, Wet Clothing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:22:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24620788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittyViolet/pseuds/KittyViolet
Relationships: Kitty Pryde/Illyana Rasputin
Kudos: 12





	Purplest

“You fell asleep in the bathtub, Kitty,” Illyana says to me, taking my wrist. I splutter and sit up. It’s true: I’m covered in suds and very sleepy. She takes one finger and runs it across my soap-bubble-covered clavicle.

“Danger Room workout space toads,” I say, and then realize it didn’t make sense. “Am tired. Kiss,” which makes a bit more sense; she does. I love how her bangs fall over my face. I push aside my curly hair and enjoy the way our lips fit together. I’m glad I don’t have braces. (Imagine fighting Magneto with braces.)

“Ready to get out?” she says, and I swear she’s waggling her eyebrows. She’s already in her long sleep shirt, the one with the pinstripes, so I figure she’s going to be leading me off to our room, and so to bed. 

I’m not wrong, but she does hold things out to me first: my two-piece button down pajamas, neatly folded, and on top of them my favorite, softest training bra, one of the soft ones from last year I haven’t outgrown, and these purple panties that I’ve never seen before.

“What made you choose those for me, roomie?” I ask as I step out of the bath, nudging her toe with mine. They’re really bright purple, almost hard to look at, and I swear I’ve never encountered the color, or the fabric, though they’re fascinating. I touch the front panel: soft, too.

“Found them in your top drawer and I liked them,” Illyana says. “The more sleep we get, the more homework we do tomorrow, the more time we have to play.”

“You sound like someone wrote that line for you,” I say as she towels me off, almost the same way I toweled her off last night. We alternate like that. Still, something seems special about them. Almost uncanny. She moves one corner of the towel under my breasts and I love how it feels. Not so long ago I didn’t have enough up there to fit a towel underneath.

“Remember the costume generator?”

“Do I ever.” The first time I went to space I found a costume generator that let me dress up as Dazzler, Captain America and some sort of monstrosity on roller skates in every color of the rainbow. Kurt took a picture and I will never live it down. Since then I’ve figured out how to use Shi’ar tech for less ridiculous goods, though the generator in our closet will never replace the Salem Center Mall.

“Costume generator panties. That’s why they might feel special the first time you wear them.” 

Plausible. They certainly feel right to me. So right I never want to take them off. So right I can barely focus enough to put my cotton bra and PJs on and button them up halfway before I take a step towards her and almost fall into her arms.

She grins.

“Illyana?” I ask.

“Kittycat?”

“Are we going to play together forever? Like, when we’re the age of Scott and—”

“Bad example. Say Sean and Moira.”

“OK. When we’re as old as Sean and Moira, will we still play together the way we do?”

‘What makes you ask?”

“The panties? I don’t know. I never want to take them off.”

“You’ll have to take them off at some point.” They get ever so slightly tighter as Illyana says so, and I know she’s kidding but not kidding: she can get me to want them off. I go almost limp—but don’t phase—in her hands. We’re still in the bathroom. Fortunately, at this hour, it’s our bathroom. We’re night owls and the only other mutants who use the bathroom on this floor are definitely morning larks.

“Mmmmmm, or you’ll take them off for me?” I want her hands on them as they seem to contract just a little, to thicken around me, to fill in the space where my clit begins to expand. Clit: that’s a word I knew before, but to use it for pleasure? That’s still pretty new. It’s new for me to feel pretty around her, too. 

“You can take them off yourself… if you want.”

“You know I don’t.”

“Why not?”

“Only because they’re so purple.”

“I’ve seen purpler.”

“Purpler isn’t even a word,” I object, while she tickles me a little. “Purplest. Purplest.”

“You want to see purplest?” Illyana asks, suddenly serious. I think she means Lockheed. I look around for my dragon but he’s out for a frolic, a night flight. He’d return in an emergency but only then.

I'm on the verge of losing language just from the way that the panties are moving between my legs. I think the wetness inside them is somehow purple, a delightful pale lavender purple, too. A lavender that spreads and warms me inside. I hope the wet spot starting inside them stays inside them, or else I hope it doesn’t: part of my wants my PJs to get wet, wants Illyana to see. But I want something else first. I want to stretch this song I'm hearing inside my hips out. I don't want to come just yet. "Purplest!" I sputter happily.

“I’ll show you purplest,” she says, with all the mischief that her voice can muster, and we’re in a stepping disc, and then we’re in a closet, no, a recording booth, behind a one-way mirror—we can see out but nobody can see in—and on the other side of the one-way glass there’s a room where everything’s purple, the walls, the rug, the piano, the button-down shirt, and there’s a short, beautiful man, almost like a drag king—I found out about drag kings in space-- with curly hair and a fine mustache and mocha skin at the piano, singing a song I’ve never heard. He must be a professional, rehearsing or fine-tuning a new song.

I recognize him even though I don’t know the song. “I don’t care where you go,” he’s singing. “I don’t care what you do. I don’t care pretty baby…. Just take me with u.”

I’m transported. Possibly his magic calls to my panties a little too. I don’t think Illyana would mind. I love the idea that we can see out but we can do anything we want secretly in here and no one can see it. We can keep doing what we’re doing. She’s got her head so close to mine. I can feel her breath: lemon tea. Violets. No, the violet comes from the purple panties, which are taking over everything else about my senses, giving me synaesthesia while turning me on.

“The magic is working,” she whispers. She’s motioning me to hush, which I want to do anyway. I wonder if we’ve gone forward or back in time, or whether this very moment, when he’s composing, is the moment we left in Westchester. I wonder if we can revisit this moment with our future selves. I think we will. The panties make me feel floaty and grounded at once, like I'm lost in time.

“Where are we?” I ask.

“Minnesota,” she says. “Ssssh. Like calls to like.” She means that magic calls to magic, which seems fair. We must be at a source for her purple magic.

“Come on and touch the place in me that’s calling out your name,” the short man at the piano croons, eyes closed, and I imagine I’m singing myself. I want Illyana to touch me through, right through those purple panties, and she does. 

“There’s a spell on these panties,” I tell her, “not just space tech.”

"You figured it out," she says. "Good girl. Smart girl." She rewards me for the discovery by having the panties slide and vibrate along my hips, in tune with the music from the piano. Then she slides her finger into them, and then two fingers, one on either side of my expanding clit…. I reach out to her in return and almost phase through a mixing board.

Are there caged birds in the recording studio? White ones in crates, brought in to sleep here at night? I think I see them. That can't be right.

But then I can’t concentrate on the birds, I’m too happy here again, Illyana has found the magic’s source, and no one will find us here, I’m barely able to see, the vibrations are inside me now, a rhythm speeding up and then slowing down as it gets more intense, deeper inside me, I close my eyes and everything’s purple, there’s still a bit of soap on my eyelashes but she licks it off, and I arc my body forward to brush against her bangs again, her nose again, her lips again—

“We can’t stay too long at the source,” she says. “It’s powerful magic that I can only tap into with panties, and only at certain times—”

“I don’t care where you go,” the singer exclaims, making the piano sound like a summer storm, “I don’t care what you do,” and I trace my own finger around her nipple, over her sleep shirt, and then I move my other hand so that it rests between her legs and she can fit her hips around it, and I push up so she can rub against it while the panties she ensorcelled contract and my hips contract and everything’s purple, violet, lavender, amethyst, lilac, purple, purple, purple---

we fall through a stepping disc again and onto her bed just as she comes, arcing her body up the way she does, and I flood my own panties a moment later, as I collapse on top of her, the words stll in my head: “I don’t care if we spend the night at your mansion…” because we are going to spend the night at the mansion, the X-mansion, and many more nights to come. 

But the stepping disc fails to bring us all the way through, which happens sometimes, and we’re back in the recording studio, in the one way mirror booth again, landing on the leather couch right by the crates for sleeping birds. It’s quiet in the other room and we’re so wrapped up in each other that we’re off balance and we’re about to fall down and I’m afraid we’re about to be found, so I phase us both.

Before she can portal us out of there again, away from the purple magic’s source, I realize I’ve disrupted some electronics; whatever was keeping the birds, who turns out to be doves, inside their cages had some electronic component, and now the locks fall open and there are white birds fluttering about inside the recording booth where only a few minutes earlier we were having you-don’t-have-to-take-your-panties-off sex and listening to a sexy song.

I feel bad for the birds, which are trying to fly out and making sad sounds I’ve never heard, and one hits the glass and another flies out the door of the recording booth, which has sprung open, and the pianist stands up and looks intently at the one-way glass and asks “are they crying? is this what it sounds like when they cry?” which maybe the birds are, but I know they’ll be fine, nothing can hurt them, the magic’s too strong, I see him pick up his guitar and then Ilyana takes a deep breath and summons another disc and we’re back in our bed again.

We pick up where we left off, so fast my head spins. My legs come together and I come together too. 

A few minutes later I’m breathing hard. “Purple panties,” I say.

She grins.

“Do you want to try them on?” I ask, panting.

She raises an eyebrow. “I used to let you try on all my clothes,” she says, and I think she’s quoting something.

“I’m not teaching you how to control them,” she says. “Not unless you ask.”

“Not yet,” I say. “I’m not taking them off yet, anyway,” and she responds by snapping her fingers and I lose control again.


End file.
